Aw Mama--Can This Really Be The End? To Be Stuck Inside of Lawndale
by Scissors MacGillicutty
Summary: Various characters from two fictional universes collide and find themselves resigned to employment in fields other than those of their dreams, and the roles of commerce and art in the world are compared and contrasted.
1. Chapter 1

"You got the cash?"

"Yeah, yeah, I got—where's the—"

The younger man clapped a well-manicured hand over the older man's wrinkled, ruined mouth and its shrunken teeth, barely clinging to inflamed gums. "Not here, asshole, and not so loud." He removed his hand and tossed his head towards a darkened passageway on the motel's first floor. "There."

The older man raised a shaking hand to point to their proposed destination. "There? But it's dark, and…" His voice died out as he dropped his hand to confront the younger man. "You think you're gonna take me in there, and grab my cash—"

This time the younger man silenced him with a single finger to the older man's lips. "Harry, I don't know how you used to do business with my, uh, predecessor, but I like to transact business with at least a little privacy." He took a short, thick black metal flashlight from his pocket. "Besides, we'll have light." He took his finger from the man's lips, spun him doll-like towards the darkened passageway, and gave him a slight push. "You first. Age before beauty and all that."

The old man walked towards the passageway but began again to complain. "Can't light up that hall with just a flashlight."

"I don't intend to. We'll have enough light to conduct business."

Once in the darkened passageway, the young man positioned the older one against a wall, turned to face the parking lot, and, huddling against him, held the flashlight at chest height, pointed it at the ground, and turned it on. "Let's see it," he said. Trembling hands brought a small pile of worn bills into the cone of light. "Not like that," the young man said. "Fan them out. Let me see it." There were a few muttered words, then fumbling compliance. "Nice," the young man said. "The man is good." He reached out with a small plastic bag, which he deftly put into the older man's quivering fingers while taking the cash with the same hand. "Welcome to the modern world, Harry."

He was about to extinguish the flashlight when the older man took it with a surprisingly strong grip and used it to examine the contents of the small bag. "What is this shit?" he spat, "I used to get twice as much for that money! And what's this about—stuff is goddamn blue!"

"That blue is the mark of excellence in meth, Harry," the young man replied. "And it may only be half as much, but it's more than twice as strong. The man who makes our meth says your old stuff was maybe 40% pure, and that was on a good day. This is greater than 95% purity."

"That's bullshit! Old stuff was fine. Gimme my money back!"

"Tell you what," the young man said as he took the flashlight from the old man, flicked it off, and hit the wall with its back end. Then he held the light as before, this time using it to expose a package full of small blue crystals. "You have your gear here? Take one of the smaller pieces and fire it up. On the house."

The older man was having none of it. "That's bullshit—even if that's good, how do I know I got the same?"

The young man sighed, and then shined the flashlight in the older man's eyes. "Hey!" he yelped. Frisking him quickly, he extracted the packet he had just given the older man from a dirty jeans pocket, held it against the wall, and smashed it with the flashlight as he had done before. Then he held out both packets. "That just cost you a free high. But I'm a fair man—take a smaller piece from either packet, fire it up, and if you like it, then that packet's yours. If you don't like it, you get your money back."

The older man continued to mutter imprecations, but produced an unexpectedly clean glass pipe in one hand and took a grain of tiny sparkling blue from a packet and placed it in his pipe. "We'll see about this crap you're trying to oversell me," he said and began sparking a lighter.

It took more than five tries before he had a steady flame. Holding it up to the pipe bowl, one could see the small sparkling blue crystal become brighter and brighter until it seemed to burst into a tiny star and sublimed into a whiff of gas which the older man inhaled greedily. There was a moment of silence, followed by an ecstatic exhalation as the older man slid to the ground.

The young man smirked and shone the flashlight directly on the quivering pile at his feet. "Still want your money back?"

The older man shook his head back and forth in a violent no. "This'd be cheap at triple the price," he panted and raised his arms to run wizened fingers through greasy hair, astonished and thrilled at the sensations.

The young man regarded the now familiar response with satisfaction. "Don't worry, the price is still the same. And considering how little of it took you on such a ride, it's probably worth triple the old price for you."

He held out the bag, and the old man suddenly roused himself to snatch it, but it was just slightly out of reach. Then he pulled the bag back and tossed it hard against the ground. Most of the blue crystals remained inside, but much of it was scattered on the passageway's floor, among cigarette butts, crushed vials that held the previous product, scraps of paper, and dog dirt both old and fresh. "But THAT is for dissing my product. Consider it asshole tax."

He turned and walked away. This scene had played itself out so often before in the past week that he knew he had nothing to fear from the older man. As with the others, his most recent customer was too busy scrambling through the filth on the floor to find each bit of blue heaven to attack the man who had scattered it so. But this time, the older man had gathered up enough blue crystals while the young man was still walking from the parking lot to yell, "And it's Herb, not Harry, you well scrubbed punk! There was a time you worked for me, remember? You were so desperate you wrote a song for tires! From me, Herb!

The young man stopped and stood still for a moment. Then he turned and dashed back to the passageway, pulled the hapless Herb from his search for what blue crystals he still had not collected, and gave him the back of his hand. "I did? Then say my name, Herb. I was trying to give you a little privacy, some anonymity, even protect your pride. You want all your buddies you party with to know this broken down hump was once Lawndale's most successful car dealer? Then give it all away, Herb! C'mon, say my name! I wanna hear you say my name."

Herb's anger had turned to abject fear and he was weeping piteously in the younger man's grasp. "No," he finally choked out between sobs. "You were right. Call me whatever you want. Harry is fine."

"You're goddamn right," the younger man said and let the older man drop to the floor, where he continued his search for the magic blue crystals.


	2. Chapter 2

Trent Lane did not take his time after this last deal of the night as he had previously. Yet once he reached his car—a new but modest Honda Civic; he had been cautioned against flashy purchases—he lingered before starting it and driving away. He regarded himself in the mirror: "well scrubbed punk?" He was clean enough in the days of Mystik Spiral. He had given in to a long repressed desire for salon grooming since his employment outlook...improved. He laughed to himself and wondered what Jane would think.

His reverie turned rancid at once. How could he think fondly of Jane? It had been years since he laid down the law to Spiral and its various hangers-on that under no condition could they mention his little sister's name. She was dead to him. Jane, who'd promised not to blow off her brother, had not been home since Thanksgiving of her sophomore year, and had not called, written, or sent an email since graduating from BFAC and moving to Brooklyn more than five years ago. How could he have a happy daydream about telling her he was a…salesman? She'd want to know exactly what he sold that allowed him the small luxuries—in addition to indulging in salon hair cuts and manicures, he'd acquired a good stereo and some new furniture—he now enjoyed. She wouldn't approve. She might even turn him in.

He slammed his hands on the steering wheel and started the car. The hell with Jane. She was just another Lane—he just hadn't realized that the bond between himself and his little sister would be as tenuous as the bonds between all the other Lanes, each wandering the world, in search of their muse or economic justice or the perfect lover. She'd made a promise, though, and he was mad that she had broken it. She'd also gone off and left him behind for the same with the same self-indulgent reason his parents had left him behind: the pursuit of the perfect place to do art, or the perfect place to be an artist. The thought of just leaving someone who'd loved you and whom you claimed to love for that made him seethe. What could Spiral have been if he hadn't stayed in Lawndale—to bring up Jane and keep her from Child Protective Services—and wandered the world in search of better musicians, more committed ones than Jesse, Nick, and Max? He sacrificed his art for her life, and she couldn't even be bothered to call once in a while?

He was so full of fury he didn't see the red light. The car that had right of way avoided a collision by swerving behind him with a terrifying screech of rubber on road and then could not stop but ran over the curb and onto the sidewalk at the corner before coming to a halt. "Asshole!" the other driver screamed into the night.

Trent was shaken, but rather than stop, continued driving, now attentive to the traffic lights and signs. There was no reason to stop: No one was hurt and neither car was damaged. There was a good reason not to stop: he was in no state of mind to face a cop with a quarter kilogram of Goodbye Blue Sky brand methamphetamine in his glove compartment.

He remembered a catchword from the sales meetings: Maintain.

"Maintain. At all costs, maintain. Whenever and however you fuck up—and fuck up you will, gentlemen—do not panic. Get a grip. Maintain. In the time immediately following said fuck up this matter of personal control will be critical. In some cases, special knowledge will be necessary, as with dealing with a cop for an infraction unrelated to your work, but which could lead to the cop's discovery of your work. We'll come to that later, as your ability to draw upon that knowledge is completely dependent on your ability to maintain."

Had he maintained in his confrontation with Harry? He truly had wanted to spare the former Happy Herb's feelings by suppressing a show of recognition. Maybe the rush from the powerful new meth had made Herb bold enough to shout his true name across the parking lot like that? It was possible. He remembered something else from the sales meetings: "You can turn your back on a person, but you can't turn your back on a drug."

He thought about the sales meetings fondly. It was the first time he was part of something well organized whose rules made sense and that gave something tangible—nothing more tangible than cold hard cash—to its members. He was also surprised by the diversity of men (for they were all men, so perhaps it wasn't truly diverse) there. There were a few people his age; he even recognized Curtis Delano, the tollbooth attendant for many years who'd been in his graduating class at Lawndale High. There were also some younger kids who were full of high spirits and talk of "The Game"—at first. Then the meeting coordinator dragged one of them up in front of the entire group and subjected him to a tirade of insults—which were also insights—that left him sobbing. But then he delivered the coup de grace: "Don't think for a second that you and your friends can go home now. You wanted to be in the game, and now you're in the game. Everyone was warned beforehand that this was a serious commitment, the most serious commitment you will make in your life and once you step through these doors, there is no turning back. And if there is one thing this operation cannot and will not tolerate it is people who know the details of our business who are not part of it. I see some young men who must have seen some action overseas, am I right? As part of this job, would you have any qualms or hesitation to call on your combat skills to make these people"—here he turned the sobbing kid around to face the rest of the men in the room, pointing him slightly towards the contingent of veterans—"a non-issue, shall we say?"

They answered as one: "NO SIR!"

He laughed, "Don't call me sir. I work for a living. As will you. And"—he spun the kid around again, to get right in his face—"as will you and your friends—unless there's something about being problems that WILL be dealt with that appeals to you. Is there?"

The kid stammered out a quiet "no," and was sent back to his seat. They were all early to the next meeting, and sat in the front of the room.

The most unusual group was the older men. They were, to a one, men who had worked for years at large corporations, been laid off abruptly, and then unable to find work for long periods of time. One had been out of work for more than two years, and it had cost him his marriage. The coordinator was especially welcoming towards them. "You'll find your former co-workers may be great potential customers for our product," he told him. "After all, they're not just doing their jobs anymore, but yours as well. They'll need something to help them keep going."

It had seemed funny to Trent, but the older men all nodded, solemn expressions on their faces. During a break, one came up to him. "I know we're not supposed to fraternize, but—well, call me Jack. What should I call you?"

Trent thought for a moment. "Jesse," he finally said.

"Jesse—good name. Good street name, that's where I figure they're going to put you. We'll not just be working our old contacts, but the organization will give us credentials, have us going attending business conventions in Lawndale for related business for our old industries, see who needs the boost our product can provide." He paused. "I knew this wasn't a….completely up and up business, but do you know what I did before I was laid off?"

Trent shrugged.

"Jesse, I sold precision optics to the military. You know what they're used for? Now they're used in these drones, but before that, bombers, fighter planes, missiles—killing machines. I used to put that out of my mind, but ever since I got the boot—well, I started calling a spade a spade, if that's not too old-fashioned or politically incorrect for you. While what I'm selling now is illegal, I figure I'm actually moving up a notch of the moral scale. After all, our product makes people happy before it kills them—and then not everyone is a casualty. So, strange as it sounds, I actually feel better about doing this than I did about my older job. Isn't that a hoot?"

Trent nodded.

There had been several brief conversations at the sales meetings like that, and Trent felt a nostalgia for them, so he headed towards the LeGrand hotel where for three weeks, eight hours a day, he learned to be a meth dealer.

He didn't drive into the hotel parking lot, but stopped on the shoulder of the highway near the hotel. It looked what it was—a large, high-end hotel that catered mostly to business travelers who had come to Lawndale to make deals or prepare to make deals with one of the many enterprises that the Landons or the Sloanes controlled or had an interest in. He wouldn't have known or even understood that before his training; there was so much business in the world, and so little music…

…or art.

He pushed the thought from his mind, and instead concentrated on the people arriving at the hotel. If most of the business travelers were there drawn by enterprises the Landons or Sloanes controlled, did that mean it was the Landons or the Sloanes behind his new work? If so, which one of them? Could it be both of them?

A quote from a book he'd read—or perhaps it was one of those he'd tried to read—came into his mind. "These are the big questions that make us so unhappy." Why should he bang his head against questions whose answers he wasn't supposed to know? Why should he think of the greatest disappointment of his adult life, the loss of the one person he cared for and literally raised, which loss started him on the path that ultimately led to his current job, and the first satisfactions he'd known since Jane was his still his little sister? He always knew Spiral wasn't all that, but he had thought, as Frank Zappa had said, that music was the best. He also believed or perhaps could not tell the difference—that it meant it was the most important. Music still might be the best, but now he knew it was not the most important. Commerce was—the buying and selling of things. Being involved in the most important thing made him important, gave him a feeling of safety, and most importantly, a feeling of belonging, something he hadn't felt since…

"Naw…not gonna think of it."

He drove home carefully, observing the speed limit, not running any red lights, and not thinking of Jane. Instead, he thought of every transaction of the past week, savoring each one as a unique triumph, and looking forward to the next one. He also considered what it meant to maintain. Maybe he did look a little too clean for his assigned clientele. He had worn long sleeved shirts so no one could see his tats, but perhaps they didn't have to be so nice. That reminded him: he should try to find Axl and thank him. It was lucky that he caught him on the last day he had the tattoo parlor open. "Not gonna be in the tattoo business anymore, Trent. Got a new gig."

"What is it?"

"It's hard to explain. How's Spiral?"

"Same as always."

"Eyes still on the prize, eh wot?"

"And feet in cement."

Axl drew back in surprise. "What happened?"

"Nothing."

"So why so down on them?"

"Because it's been nothing happening with them for years." He remembered looking down to avoid Axl's gaze, with real shame burning in his cheeks. "I just never admitted it to myself before." He looked up and was surprised to see Axl furiously scribbling on the back of an envelope. "Here," he said, handing the scrap to Trent. "If I call you by 8 tonight, call that number before 10—tonight. If you don't hear from me, tear it up. Come to think of it, tear it up if you do hear from me. I think I can hook you up. You've been a good customer, and I always figured you to have more on the ball than the rest of those prats."

No sooner had he gotten home that day than the phone rang. It was Axl. "Call them now, Trent, you hear me? Call them now. Do what you're told, and you could have a new gig too." He hung up without saying goodbye.

When he arrived home, he counted his take for the night and placed it with the rest of the week's take in his mother's (now doubly broken) kiln. $5000, but only $1500 was his—the rest went to the organization. Even so, a few months of this, and he could—

—he was suddenly arrested by the memory of the terrifying dressing down the sales coordinator gave those kids. He could not bring the words to mind; he was too tired. Besides, no big questions to make us so unhappy, he thought as his head hit the pillow. Still, he wondered if it was the Landons or the Sloanes who...


	3. Chapter 3

A FEW MONTHS PREVIOUSLY

The young man who walked into the offices of Vitale, Davis, Horowitz, Riordan, Schrecter, Schrecter, Schrecter, and Morgendorffer was peculiar in many ways, but the strangest thing about him was how he twitched. He twitched when the door closed behind him; he twitched when the phone rang; he twitched when Marianne put down the phone; and he twitched when Marianne began to type.

Purposeful, stern, Helen Morgendorffer strode forth from her office, cross as usual. "Marianne, I know you have to cover the receptionist's desk while she's absent, but I must have those briefs and depositions typed and ready to submit before—"

Helen's appearance, her commanding tone of voice, the force with which she said the words "briefs," "depositions," "typed," "ready," and "submit" almost drove the young man into a seizure. When he finally stopped shaking, Helen approached him, gently. "Hello—I'm Helen Morgendorffer, one of the firms partners. And you are?"

The young man stood up—or stood up as much as he could. He was bent over, as if from many years of work. Despite the season, he wore a heavy coat and gloves. He clutched a beautiful wooden box, made from several different types of wood, and slid its cover open and shut nervously but noiselessly. "I'm…I mean my name is…No, I'm a…ah…a walk-in client. I'd like to see Mr. Vitale, please."

Helen shook her head but remained smiling. "I'm sorry, we're not a legal clinic. We only see clients and prospective clients by appointment, and then we match the client's need to the partner's or associate's temperament and knowledge." The young man's eyes grew wider and wider as Helen spoke and he opened and closed the box faster and faster until he slammed it shut unintentionally and leapt in place from the shock. Helen herself leapt back, startled, but regained her composure at once, and continued as solicitously as before. "But you don't need to wait to make an appointment—Marianne can set one up for you right now, if you can just tell her your name and the nature of work you'd like done…" Now the young man shriveled into the chair. "You needn't worry—I won't be in the room and Marianne will treat your personal information as confidential." She stepped back and extended her arm towards Marianne, now typing feverishly.

The young man, still crouched in the chair, shook his head, slowly at first, but then with gathering speed, and he began straightening his posture until he was almost standing. "No, no—I need to see Mr. Vitale. It's business only he could help with."

Helen cleared her throat, and the smile began to fade from her face. "Now see here, young man. As I said before, we are not a legal clinic. Moreover, Mr. Vitale is the firm's senior partner and the most busy member of our firm. Even if he were the best partner for the work you have, it might be weeks before he'd have an opening in his schedule available."

The young man immediately sank back into the chair. "I'll wait then." It was a peevish child's tone.

Helen stood before him now, arms akimbo, the smile completely gone from her face. "We have tried to be reasonable with you. Surely you understand our lawyers, and especially Mr. Vitale, have other obligations. You can make an appointment with Marianne now and leave, or we will call the police and have you removed for trespass. The choice is yours."

The young man stayed seated and his twitching body was now calm. The fear and deference that had marked his face was gone, replaced with a look of pain transfigured to resolve. It is a rare expression: the ones who can wear it genuinely—and this young man did—are those few who have the worst humans can inflict upon one another; some have witnessed mass atrocities—but only because they were accidentally spared; others were victims of torture who did not give up their secrets or comrades; and rarest of all, those who have been enslaved but who rose up to take their freedom. "Lady, I came a long way to see Mr. Jim Vitale, and I will see him even if I have to wait for hell to give up all the damned."

There was a stunned silence in the room. Marianne had stopped typing and sat staring at the man. Helen had backed away, ready to head for her office, but unwilling and afraid to turn her back on him.

All three were frozen in place when Jim Vitale burst into the office, puffing on a large cigar (his usual Partagas Lusitania), and laughing as he spoke into a cell phone: "If they even think about thinking about getting an injunction against us, we'll have their nuts in a jar so fast their voices will go from bass to soprano midsyllable." He paused, surveyed the office, and quickly concluded his call: "Looks like we've got a situation here, so daddy has make all the kiddies play nice. But we're copasetic on all fronts, don't worry. Ciao." Sliding the phone into his pocket, he said, "Marianne, Helen—would either of you two mind telling me why on such a warm day you two are frozen in place," but fixed his gaze on the young man.

Helen giggled nervously, "Jim, this young man is trespassing, and I was about to—"

Vitale cut her off with a wave of his cigar. "Trespassing. Really? Let's see—the applicable part of the Maryland Criminal Code would be Title 6 Sub 403, Wanton Trespass on Private Property, but there are two types: where a person has been prohibited entry, and where a person who has entered has been denied the right to remain, so I'm guessing you'd have the police charge this young man on the second type, right Helen?"

Helen had turned bright red with embarrassment and was at a loss for words.

Vitale began snapping his fingers while keeping his gaze, oddly benign, on the young man. "C'mon Helen, which type? Did you deny him entry to the office, or did you deny him the right to remain?"

With a supreme effort, Helen forced out, "Why, the—the second of course, but—"

"Enough!" Vitale barked, causing Helen to jump backwards with a tiny "eep!" of fear. Vitale now snapped his fingers at Marianne. "Marianne, get my copy of Maryland Criminal Code from my office and look up title 6, subtitle 403." As Marianne ran into Vitale's office, the man himself crouched down before the strange young man and brushed the hair from his face. "You've seen some ghastly stuff, haven't you, son? And people just don't get it, do they? You don't even know where to begin to tell them—or how to begin."

Suddenly he stood up and yelled, "Marianne—code! Where the hell is it?"

Marianne almost tripped running out of Vitale's office carrying several large tomes. Once by the desk, she began fumbling with them and nearly dropped them, but managed to get control of them at the last moment and let them rest gently on her desk. "Mr. Vitale, I'm sorry, but you wanted—"

"Title 6, Subtitle 403, Wanton Trespass on Private Property. You got it?"

"Yes," she squeaked and was about to round the receptionist's desk when Vitale held up his hand behind him, and said, "I don't want you to bring it to me, because I know it. I want you to read it to Helen."

Marianne nervously cleared her throat and began "Wanton Trespass on Private Property. (a) Prohibited - Entering and crossing property.- A person may not enter or cross over private property or board—"

He snapped his fingers again, now glaring at Helen. "Skip to (b)"

Marianne swallowed and began again. "(b) Prohibited - Remaining on property. A person may not remain on private property including the boat or other marine vessel of another, after having been notified by the owner or the owner's agent not to do so."

Vitale nodded and took a long draw on his cigar. "'After having been notified by the owner or the owner's agent'—that's the passage that stuck in my head. Helen, you're the junior partner, right? Do you recall restrictions on your acting on behalf of the firm in your contact?"

"Jim, well, I don't, I mean, I—I'd need to see it, to refresh my memor—"

"Don't bother." He walked towards her. "'The junior partner may not act as agent for the firm in matters regarding its chattels or real property without the prior approval of the scope and actions of her representations as agent for the firm from a partner or partners having 25% equity in the firm or more.'" He whistled. "Even contracts have some beautiful sentences in them, but that ain't one of them. But the meaning is clear, as is its applicability to the situation at hand. The law says that only the owner or the owner's agent can notify someone they may not remain on private property, and your contract says that you cannot act as agent for the firm's real property without prior approval of a partner or partners with at least 25% stake in the firm. I hope you knew better than to just go to asshat, 'cause hell, he's got 5% after the last haircut his dad gave him, so alone he's no good to back you up in this. So—what? You go to his dad? Naw, 'cause he's never in the office. Hank Riordan? He's in court today, EARNING BILLABLE HOURS, so not him. Paul Horowitz? No, he voted against you making partner, but people can change—wait, I've got it—you went to Sue Davis, right? Sweet sweet socialist Sue, daughter of the great Jack Davis, and an even better lawyer than he was and after me, our largest stakeholder with 30% of the firm in her purse! But that doesn't make sense, 'cause she's our bleeding heart liberal, so she'd let the guy stay if he just needed a place to crash. SO HELEN, TELL ME: WHO DID YOU GO TO GET AUTHORIZATION TO HAVE THIS GUY REMOVED UNDER TITLE 6, SUBTITLE 403 OF THE FUCKING MARYLAND FUCKING CRIMINAL CODE BESIDES ASSHAT?"

Helen didn't meet Vitale's gaze. "Actually Jim, I didn't even speak to Eric."

Vitale smirked. "I know. Asshat would be scared shitless to back you up on anything since his last fuck-up. But that's not why you didn't go to him." He walked over to her. "You. Just. FORGOT."

He drew back. Helen was silently weeping. "Ah, Helen, Helen, you wanted that partnership so bad, you could just taste it, but now that you have it—you're subject to all these liabilities and other hazards. You could have been a happy associate. But now, BECAUSE YOU WASTED MY BILLABLE TIME and BECAUSE YOU EXCEEDED YOUR AUTHORITY we'll have to adjust things." He let her stand in the hall a moment longer before finally dismissing her: "Get back to work before you're in the hole so deep you'll never have enough hours to dig yourself out." Then he went back to the receptionist's desk, gathered up his law books, and said gently to the young man, "Now let's see if we can't help you out, son."

He put his arm around the young man and they went into the office. Vitale replaced the books on the shelf, and then closed the door.


	4. Chapter 4

Once inside his office with the young man, Jim Vitale put his feet on his desk, slouched in his chair, and puffed vigorously on his Lusitania. He did not look at the young man and any sympathy was gone from his voice. "So Sonnyboy, what it is you need? Business, right? Papers of incorporation? Easy? No? Maybe the other direction, bankruptcy? Not so nice, but also easy. So easy you could get them done over the web for a lot less than I charge, which, just so you know, is $400 an hour. Well, $400 for things in this jurisdiction. Others, like New York, where I am still a member of the bar, will be more. But then if you have something happening in God-forsaken West Virginia, it's less for me to do what the Almighty won't. So—tell me your story."

The young man's fretfulness had returned. He did not sit, but stood before Vitale's desk, eyes averted. "I need some business advi…I mean, I need business help."

"And?"

The young man sighed. "I heard you were a certain type of lawyer. A special lawyer. Somebody who'd…offer his clients services…" He sighed again. "Maybe I heard wrong."

Vitale shrugged, spun around in his chair, and blew great clouds of smoke. "Maybe you did, maybe you didn't. I can't tell unless you tell me what you heard."

The young man put his box on Vitale's desk and clenched and unclenched his fists. "Look, do we have lawyer-client confidentiality?"

Vitale laughed. "How could we? Sonnyboy, you aren't my client yet."

The young man opened the box and reached inside. Vitale stood up and peered over. It was empty but the young man continued to press on the inside. Vitale laughed again. "Looks like you brought the wrong piggy bank, sonnyboy."

Young man didn't reply but continued pressing the box's interior. Suddenly, the box made a definite CLICK, and the young man turned the box over, slid off its bottom, and took a thick, neatly stacked and banded wad of $100 bills from its cache. "There's one hundred $100 bills there—that's ten thousand dollars. Is that enough to retain you, _bitch_?"

Vitale riffled through the stack of bills with cold eyes. "Usually my retainer is $2500. But for people who call me bitch and pay in cash, it's $25,000—and do not, I repeat, do not call me bitch again."

"Or?"

Vitale pushed his chair away from his desk to stretch his tall frame to its full extent. "The law is only what we lawyers do with it, Sonnyboy. I have some clients from certain jurisdictions whose retainer and payments to me are services rendered on my behalf. Will these words to the wise guy suffice, or must I draw a picture."

The young man actually laughed. "So you're not just a criminal lawyer—you're a _criminal_ lawyer," he said.

"My retainer just went up another $5000, sonnyboy"

The young man sat down, idly took three more banded wads of $100 bills from his cache, and said, "For an extra ten thou, can I get you to stop this sonnyboy shit?"

Vitale nodded, and the young man put the other $30,000 on the desk. "So then—what do I call you? What's your name?"

The young man sighed. "Why not call me Jordan."

"Because it's not your name?"

The young man took a duo-fold wallet from coat and opened it on the desk. Vitale, sitting outstretched in his chair, swung around to look at it. "Jordan Pascal, eh? It's one of the better forgeries of a New Mexico driver's license I've seen, not the best, but definitely in the top ten, maybe even the top five."

"Yo, I just put 40 grand on your desk, man. Why are you busting my balls?"

Vitale sat up in his chair, placed his hands together before him, and fixed the young man with a calm, serious gaze. "A young man in rather tattered clothes shows up in my office with what is obviously a container for a large amount of currency. Young people who show up in lawyer's offices in clothes they've been sleeping in, without appointments and with large sums of money in hard currency are, with some few exotic exceptions, young people who have made those large sums of cash through some role in the illegal drug industry and are either facing a prosecution for said role, or are fleeing the DEA or other law enforcement organization. Am I right?"

Jordan (if that was his name) smirked. "Yeah, it's drug money. But nobody is after me, and I am not facing a trial."

Vitale held up his palms and shrugged. "So why do you need a lawyer anyway? Go forth and make more money off degenerate drug addicts."

"That's just it. I'm not making money in the drug business. I could, but I need distribution for my product."

"That product being?"

Jordan sighed. "Crystal meth."

Vitale laughed. "You think I have the connections who want to get involved with an ugly, bargain basement drug? How'd you even make so much money off that crap? This is what, two, three years of cooking that trash in your mom's basement or something? And when has there ever been a meth king pin?"

Angrily, Jordan took the bills off Vitale's desk and placed them back into his cache. "You are such a rip, yo," Jordan fumed. "I was told you knew what was happening across the country. Well, meth is big business now in the southwest, and it's just a matter of time before it's big here."

Vitale replied, "The southwest is a long ways from here, and the Mexicans are just bringing their product across the border, not their militias. I admit, I was yanking your chain—a lot of the meth here is now Mexican as well. But their organizations don't have the reach, and the traditional organized crime in this part of the country is staying away—for now. There's still room for the smaller meth cooks. You'd have to have a very special product and an excellent organization to make serious money off meth here."

Jordan huddled close to the desk. "And what if I told I you I had not just a special product, but a legendary one. And not just an inventory of it, but a supply of it. I have a lab, and it's not a basement or garage mess, but a real, industrial grade lab, with industrial components, clean, and cleanable, so I have consistent batch quality."

"How consistent?"

"At least 95% pure every run."

Vitale sat back and guffawed. "There was only one cook who got those kind of results, and he's dead now. Heisenberg was his street name, real name Walter White—some poor schmuck high school chemistry teacher who got a cancer diagnosis and turned to making meth to pay his medical bills. He was a hell of a chemist—grad studies at Caltech, publications—but then something happened and he's just Mr. White, telling kids to shut up so he can explain the difference between orbits and orbitals. Then—Bam!—cancer. And for one brief shining moment, he was a drug kingpin, But he fell hard and fast—found him dead in a compound run by some white power or white supremacist group. Guess they were making him cook. But all the white trash Nazis were dead, and Walter took his method to the grave."

Jordan sat up and looked Vitale in the eye. "You're half right—Walter White developed the process those racist assholes were using. But he wasn't cooking for them. I was. I'd been his lab assistant and partner from the first, and I got it so I had my own variations on his method. So there weren't one but two greatest meth cooks in the country. I'm the other one, and I can prove it." He reached again into the cache, and took out a medium sized shard of translucent blue with the banner for the Baltimore Sun from a week ago embedded in it. "I made that batch last week, and that newspaper in it is proof. What do you say to that?"

A warm smile broke out across Vitale's face, and he reached across the desk, and hugged the young man. The young man began to squirm, but before he could break free, Vitale broke the embrace, and gave him a good-natured tap on the shoulder. "What do I say to that? I say, 'Now that wasn't so hard, was it, Jesse?'"

The young man, who was a moment ago Jordan and who was now called Jesse, reeled back from Vitale's desk, shocked that anyone knew who he was or what his relationship was with Walter White, or that he even had a relationship with Walter White—except a lot of dead people. How did this man know?

Vitale's office had a window behind his desk, and from the angle where Jesse sat—indeed, almost lay—he could see a darkening sky behind the tall erect figure of James Vitale, Esq., who had outstretched his hand. "All you had to do was say your name," the lawyer said. "And yes, I can help with your distribution, and there will be no headaches as there were with the Salamancas, Gustavo Fring, or those white supremacists. It's a pleasure and an honor to meet you, Jesse Pinkman. "


	5. Chapter 5

How did you know?" Jesse Pinkman—his real name at last—was stunned. "I mean, the guy who sent me your way said you had your fingers in a lot of pies—"

Vitale cut him off. "Not so fast, son. I know facts, but I don't know reasons. Example: you were last known to be cooperating with DEA agents Hank Schrader and Steve Gomez after Albuquerque PD brought you in for tossing several million dollars out the window of your car. Then the official record goes dark, and any statements you made or evidence you provided to agents Schrader and Gomez are missing, presumed taken during the course of a burglary at the Schrader residence, but we cannot be sure as agents Schrader and Gomez have taken permanent retirement and are enjoying what Raymond Chandler called 'The Big Sleep.'"

Before Jesse Pinkman could respond, Vitale whirled away from him in his chair to regard the gathering storm from his immense picture window and began to intone:

_Blow winds and crack your cheeks! Rage, blow!  
You cataracts and hurricanoes, spout  
Till you have drenched our steeples, drowned the cocks  
You sulphurous and thought-executing fires,  
Vaunt couriers of oak-cleaving thunderbolts,  
Singe my white head! And thou, all shaking thunder,  
Strike flat the thick rotundity of the world  
Crack nature's moulds, all germens spill at once  
That make ungrateful man!_

He slowly turned back to Pinkman, who was wearing a thoroughly perplexed expression, and said, "I know, my lead-in there suggested Hamlet's _'To sleep perchance to dream'_ but the weather outside put me more in a King Lear kind of mood. But then, hell, I'm more a King Lear kind of guy, _'How sharper than a serpent's tooth it is to serve a thankless child'_ and all that. Besides, what happened after Schrader and Gomez were gunned down by our favorite neighborhood Nazis, that was your time to be Lear on the heath. That was your most isolated, most violent, most terrible time of your life." He paused, looked at Jesse: the young man had averted his face, but it was plain that it was contorted with pain. Then Vitale continued, his voice gentle and comforting: "I'm not going to recite the details of what happened at To'hajiilee or after that until you busted out of the compound. But as I know that you wanted nothing to do with meth as far back as when you did your Robin Hood routine, and I know as well the incredibly evil shit that went down with those Nazis, I have to ask you: why, why, why do you want to cook meth again? You have money and a new identity. Why go back to something that made you so miserable, destroyed—literally—lives of people you loved?"

Jesse turned to face Vitale, his face still contorted with the memories of horrors he'd seen and lived, and said, "You seem to know everything—including events from which there were no living survivors except me, and I cannot begin to tell you how **FUCKING— FREAKED— OUT— THAT MAKES ME—"** here he paused to catch his breath after shouting "—so why even ask me, _Jimbo?"_

Vitale nodded. "OK, I deserve that, and I suppose I've been asking you to run around the house without thinking of a fox by saying I won't talk about specific events, but—and you gotta believe me when I say this, believe that I think it's true myself and believe it'll be good for you—_confession is good for the soul._" He paused briefly, and continued: "The law doesn't address itself to the soul anymore, and its place has been taken by the subconscious, and confession's place has been taken by therapy. People say they're the same, but they're not. Psychological health is not the same as moral fitness; emotional catharsis is not moral cleansing." He reached across the desk and took Jesse's hand. "You have been more sinned against than sinning, those who acted against you or used you—and I'm not just thinking of Mr. White or the damn Aryan Brotherhood, but maybe most of all Schrader and Gomez, because you were nothing but bait for White to them, especially Schrader—but the cleansing effect of confession is the same: wash away the sins that have been done to you."

Jesse's gaze had been moving from Vitale's hand on his to Vitale's gaze with increasing rapidity, and his breathing was also accelerating so that now he was almost hyperventilating. "So what, you want me to say some 'Hail Mary's and 'Our Father's is that it? I'm really starting to regret I walked in—"

"RELAX." The voice seem to come not from Vitale but from beneath him, and it was low, sonorous, and soothing; not a command, but a spell to conjure up the state it named. "Never mind how I know what I do. It's not magic; more a question of having clients whose secrets involve the surveillance state we've become since 9/11. And let my clarify what I meant when I said I know facts, but I don't know reasons. I actually do know reasons, but in the way someone knows about a beautiful sunset or romantic love or loving a child just by being told what it's like, not because they've experienced it for themselves." He took his hand from Jesse's and fixed him with a stare more solemn than sympathetic, but sympathetic still. "When you confess, you give the confessor the opportunity to share those experiences, to know them from the inside, and so clean you of them."

Jesse said nothing. He was finally ready to be led.

"I can make this very easy for you. Since I know everything, I will tell what happened—but when I've finished a sentence or part of a sentence, you just repeat it. OK?'

Jesse nodded.

"OK, good. Let's start with you getting away from the Aryans. When you broke out of the compound, you were screaming and driving as fast as you were because you didn't know if you were sane anymore, or, if you weren't, whether you could ever be sane again."

Jesse's eyes lit up. "Yes—yes! That's it, that's—"

"Calm down, son. Just repeat it and feel it."

"OK." He took a breath and exhaled. "When I broke out of the Aryan Brotherhood's compound, I was screaming, but I didn't know if it was because I was relieved to be free or because I had nothing to live for now I was free. I thought I might be crazy because of…" His voice slowed until he stopped speaking.

"Do you need me to fill it in?"

"No. I can do this." He sat up straight and continued. "I thought I might be crazy because I saw a woman I loved and vowed to protect, Andrea Cantillo, shot and killed because of—because of something _I_—" He was having more and more difficulty choking back the sobs.

"No, no, Jesse, it was _not_ because of something you did. You thought you might be crazy because you saw a woman you loved and vow to protect, Andrea Cantillo, shot and killed _by evil men who held you in bondage and wanted to torture you, by killing an innocent you loved, and pinning the blame on you._ Go on, say it."

He erupting in weeping. "No, no, it's not true! It was my fault! It was my fault! I saw the—"

Vitale voice, not shouting, drowned his out. "You saw the picture in the lab and knew it was a threat that only evil and cowardly men would make—not to attack or injure you, but attack and injure those you loved."

It was as if a switch turned in Jesse's mind. He ceased sobbing at once and blinked, oddly calm. "That's—that's right. They needed me for the meth, and —"

Vitale began speaking with him "—and they couldn't attack you, and injure you so you couldn't cook, so they played this evil mind game and killed an innocent person."

They continued speaking as one: "So once I returned to Albuquerque, I tried to get a job doing anything, but the police would always show up, reveal my true name, and destroyed each chance I tried to live an honest life. I knew where the Aryans had hidden Mr. White's money, so one night about a month later, I drove out to the desert where they had buried it, dug it up, and tried to find a lawyer to take the place of Saul Goodman. The man I found, Bill Peyton, had contacts in the IT departments of the Albuquerque PD, the New Mexico State Police, and the DEA, and they made the old me, Jesse Pinkman, disappear from every system they had access to. The cops who knew me by face had to give up because all electronic records were missing, and it was an embarrassment for them to keep arresting a Jesse Pinkman who didn't exist in any system, but whose face and fingerprints matched those of Jordan Pascal, a guy with a clean record and an associate's degree in chemistry from Albuquerque Community College. Once the electronic systems were cleaned, then we began cleaning the paper archives…"

(* * *)

"…I thought I could be safe if I moved far away, to the East Coast. But the what was left of the Salumanca family had DEA agents on the payroll throughout the country, and they didn't care that Jesse Pinkman didn't exist. Gus Fring had promised me to them, and they were determined to collect, even more than ever that Gus had almost wiped them out. So I had to spec a lab, and they were able to get all the equipment, glass, generators, air purifiers, and they copied Gus Fring's lab design, building it under an industrial laundry."

He stopped and sighed. He had come into James Vitale's office before 11AM; it was now after 4PM.

"How's it feel now, son?"

Jesse nodded, calm for the first time in he couldn't recall how long. "Better. A lot better, Mr. Vitale."

"But this still leaves one question unanswered—why fight them on their terms? Why still cook meth, but rather than for what's left of the Salumanca's, for yourself? Don't you remember what it did to Walter White."

Jesse shrugged. "I would have loved to do fine workworking. For a while when the heat was off, in Chicago, I rented some space with a craft's collective and made this box." He passed his hands over it gently. "But I can't kid myself, and I can't kid anybody. I'm a meth cook. Maybe, after a few years with no competition, I could take up something else. But right now, all I am is a meth cook. And if I have to be a meth cook, I might as well be my own meth cook."

Vitale nodded. "OK then—let's get you back in business for yourself."

"So you can handle distribution?"

"Distribution, security—all you have to do is cook." The storm had cleared but was reforming and Vitale stood up to regard it through his window. "I think Lawndale's meth addicts deserve a better quality product." Then he turned to face Jesse. "First, let's get you a reason to be in and out of this office on a daily basis. Follow me."

Vitale burst from his office, Jesse in tow and bewildered. "Marianne, Marianne, Marianne—I think working for Helen is making Asshat rub off on you indirectly. Why didn't you tell me my new confidential paralegal had arrived for his interview."

Marianne shot up from her chair. "But Mr. Vitale, he's not in your appointment book." She handed the book to Vitale, who did not take it, but only tapped on one part of the page. "Sure it is, Marianne—and in your handwriting, too."

Marianne looked over to see written in her neat, small handwriting, "Jordan Pascal interview w/JV 11AM—?" She looked up, but could not meet his gaze. "I'm sorry Mr. Vitale…I must have forgo—"

"Of course you forgot, Marianne, what other explanation is there? Let's get Jordan some office space. Now because his work for me is confidential, you won't be seeing him in the office everyday, but he'll need a decent space nonetheless. Can we throw asshat back into a cube in the library?" He plucked a ball from Marianne's desk and began tossing it between his hands. "Of course we can! Jordan, watch this—"

He strode down the hall, and threw open the door to Eric Schrecter's office, crying, "Hey asshat—think fast!" and then pelting him with the ball.

"OW! Jim, what'd I do now?"

"You're breathing, for starters. And you're occupying the office of my new paralegal, Jordan Pascal. I'd introduce you, but he's bright young guy, and I don't want him picking up any bad habits. C'mon, get your shit back to the library—"

"But Jim—"

"But Jim nothing. Get yourself cleaned out before 10PM tonight." With that, he slammed the door, and strode back to reception. "We're a fun bunch here, eh, Jesse?" he whispered with a wink.

Once back in the reception area, he clapped his hands together, and announced, "So Jordan—I will be in touch about those projects. Meantime, you just take it easy—you'll be busy enough when the rubber hits the road. Oh yeah—" he ducked into his office and returned with Jesse's box. "Don't forget this. Beautiful heirloom. Thanks for sharing it." He stooped over and quickly whispered, "Just go, don't worry about anything—this little song and dance is necessary to cover our darker purpose, shall we call it? Remember; I'm on your side."

Jesse, bemused by Vitale's sudden transformation from deeply sympathetic to flip and glib, left in a rush.

Vitale faintly swaggered back into his office, and dialed a number on his cell phone. "Yeah, Bill? I like the kid. I think this will work very nicely—and what made you take the bar exam when you _retired_ to New Mexico, huh? Me? Oh, that figures." He listened for a moment, and then said, "Well, today was like that Japanese TV show, you know, Iron Chef? Except the special ingredient was: the innocent soul of a young man!" He laughed a low and dark laugh as thunder rumbled in the distance.


End file.
